Off the Edge
by Ormspryde
Summary: Bart is, yet again, in the clutches of someone very familiar.  But something's off this time.  Rated for violence and gore, character death.  First Simpsons fic in a while.


A/N: I'm mildly rediscovering my love of Bob from forever ago, but for some reason I felt like departing from my usual 'poor little Bob' sort of storyline into...rather darker territory. Do bear in mind that I haven't caught up with the series in a number of years, so this may be rather out of date. Inspired by JtHM.

The boy woke in the dark, gasping desperately to awareness as a man who surfaces in the sea might gasp for breath. His head was foggy and ached with a dull throb, and he did not know where he was, nor why he could not move.

The noise of his breathing must have alerted someone to his return to consciousness. In the darkness, a match flared, overwhelming his dark-adjusted eyes for a moment.

'Little Bart Simpson,' hissed a familiar voice - though whose it was, his pain-dulled mind could not recall. In the light of the match, he caught a glimpse of red hair and sallow skin, and a pair of grey eyes that frightened him more than anything else which had happened so far.

Those eyes promised horrors beyond imagining; shone with a terrible madness.

Slowly, the slim hand holding the match moved it through the encompassing dark, using it to kindle a candle. The candle burst into life, beating back the night.

The boy squinted at his captor, memories beating at the haze in his mind. Gradually - painfully slowly - he recognised the man. 'Sideshow Bob?'

'Occasionally, but not as much as I once was,' the man rasped, casually flicking the match to the ground, where he extinguished it with a shoe. There was something different, now, about his voice; it was rougher than the boy recalled, with a strange note in it that didn't speak well for any sanity the redhead might have had left. Nor did the cruel smile which twisted his lips.

In his bonds, the boy shuddered. He had seen this man at his worst, or so he thought; now, he knew better. 'What...what are you going to do to me...?' he whispered, though even to himself, it sounded lame, and he wasn't surprised when his captor laughed at him.

'What am I going to _do_? Ah, boy, you haven't changed - though it would seem that _I_ have. Mm, or has the world always been this way...? No matter.'

'What are you _talking_ about?'

That chilling smile again. 'Bart, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a man. Now, this man, whether he did good or ill, was imprisoned by society.'

Suddenly Bart lost his temper. 'That's because you _deserved_ it!'

The smile never left the man's face as he picked up a dagger and casually slapped the boy with the flat of the blade. 'It is _rude_ to interrupt, Mr. Simpson...unless you'd rather I started the party early?' He placed the edge of the blade against the boy's throat, pressing lightly, and loomed towards the boy, his eyes inches from Bart's own.

It was more than enough to get the point across; the boy's throat went suddenly dry. 'No,' he whispered, not daring to nod.

'Good, good lad,' replied the redhead, and he straightened up, delicately placing the dagger back upon the table which held the candle. The boy could not help but notice the other instruments lying on the table, and he swallowed hard.

'Now, where was I? Ahh, yes. Now, one night, as he lay imprisoned, this man had a dream, and in this dream, an old Thing came to him, saying to the man, "Come to me, and I will give you the power to free yourself - give to me the blood and bones of your enemies, and I will give you the power to destroy all those who have wronged you."' Bob's eyes seemed to grow wider and more deranged the further he got, and he ended his speech by picking up the candle and carrying it to the opposite side of the room.

When Bart saw the wall, he wanted to scream, but his throat closed and wouldn't let him vent his horror. The candle's flickering light didn't illuminate well, but it was bright enough to see the wall, and that was bad enough...

It was covered in blood, every inch of it stained; and worse, there _were_ bones, still with flesh clinging to them, nailed into the surface and even jabbed into the wall itself. There was even a row of skulls lined up on a low table; they seemed to dance and jeer in the shifting candlelight.

The boy could only stare as his captor ran a hand across the wall, almost lovingly. 'Don't you see, Bart? The wall needs to _feed_. It's alive now; it _hungers_ - and I'm afraid you're its next meal.'

Bart screamed at last, though he was cut off short as the night and the knife closed in.

It was over now, ended as all things must be, though Robert was more than satisfied with the night's work. And he felt the Thing's pleasure seeping through the wall, too, and knew that this latest meal was appreciated. Now began the tedious process of cleaning and putting away his tools; but even that he did not mind, not after what he had done.

And to think - even the murder of his long-time nemesis was not his magnum opus. He smiled, humming under his breath as he wiped the blood from his instruments; no, that was yet to come.

When he had gathered his strength and his power, then, ah then! he would show this town what he was made of!

At least in the moments before their demise.


End file.
